


His Touch Tickles (Especially When He's Gentle)

by dizzzylu



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boarding School, M/M, Rimming, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames wants to broaden his horizons. Arthur is a little reluctant.</p><p>(both Arthur and Eames are 17ish)</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Touch Tickles (Especially When He's Gentle)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a surprise present for my darling S who is stubborn and refused to leave any prompts. Luckily, I'm even more stubborn and decided she gets a Christmas gift anyway. Many, _many_ thanks to my cheerleaders obstinatrix and blue_fjords, and also to my wonderful new friends withlightning and cmonkatiekatie.
> 
> Merry Christmas, bb ♥
> 
> (Everybody feel free to ignore how little this has to do with Christmas, m’kay?)

"Arthur?"

"What?"

"I want to try something."

Arthur remains silent, attention focused on the bruise he's sucking into Eames' neck. His long legs are wrapped around Eames' waist, their cocks spent and sticky between them.

"Arthur," Eames pleads, hands on Arthur's shoulders, steadily pushing him away.

Arthur's sigh is rough, his scowl fierce. "What."

"I want to try something." Eames pauses, one finger tapping against Arthur's collarbone, then corrects himself. "I want to do something to you."

"I told you, if anybody is getting tied up, it's you. Now, if you don't mind, I was busy." He leans back in and presses his open mouth to the underside of Eames' chin. His tongue is wet and warm, tracing clever shapes through the rough stubble there. Eames wants to relent, wants to let Arthur mark him up however he wishes, but there is something he wants more, and his fingers dig into Arthur's arse to help him gather his willpower.

"Arthur, dar-- please." The endearment, as always, appears unbidden. Sometimes, Eames is not as quick to catch it. He's thankful this is not one of those times. "There is no bondage of any kind. In f- fact," he stutters, enjoying the sharp, damp suction at his collarbone. His voice is rough but firm when he tries again. "In fact, you may leave any time you wish, I won't stop you."

Arthur's snort is muffled around Eames' hardening nipple, caught between Arthur's teeth. "Like you could stop me from leaving even if I _was_ tied up." The cruel drag of his teeth over thin skin arrows straight to Eames' cock; it gives an interested twitch.

Eames groans, annoyed, and picks Arthur up by his hips, pushing him back onto the bed. Arthur sputters in indignation, arms and legs flailing at the same time Eames is trying to roll him onto his stomach. It's a messy tangle of Arthur's wiry limbs and Eames' thicker ones, but once Eames gets two delicate wrists in one hand, it's only a matter of capturing Arthur's legs to get him to still.

Arthur is stiff at first, a long, tight line from head to toe, unmoving yet tense underneath Eames. Eames fancies he can hear Arthur's teeth grinding, somewhat like the fine bones of his wrists are as he attempts to twist out of Eames' grip. Eames stretches out, then, aligning himself to match Arthur limb for limb, and using his weight for extra leverage. His face is buried in Arthur's soft curls, his breathing deep and even. When he levers up, just a little, there's a sliver of skin exposed at Arthur's nape and Eames scrapes his teeth over it.

"Okay, fine," Arthur relents, with a subtle loosening of his tension. His hands, at least, stop struggling and Eames skims his palms along Arthur's arms, thumbs over his bony elbows, squeezes sleek biceps, while his mouth works along Arthur's back, wet and open. Arthur shivers and says, "But you're going to tell me what it is first, or I leave right now."

Even without looking, Eames can picture the frustrated crease of Arthur's eyebrows and hums, pleased, around the knob of Arthur's spine. "Now, now. You know me, Arthur. I'm a much better shower than a teller." He noses at the skin there, the soft, clean scent of it. So different from the other boys Eames has dallied with, experimental jocks smudged with dirt and sweat and fancy cologne. This is Arthur at his base and Eames drinks it in.

The idea that this isn't the way it works between them flits through Eames' mind. Even with Arthur's private room that gets him picked on day in and day out, they never take their time. They're teenage boys and this has never been about feelings. Or so maybe Arthur wants to pretend, and Eames is willing to oblige. But now Eames can't help himself, not with Arthur splayed out in underneath him, naked and restless, and the line of his back so goddamn inviting. He brushes his lips over it, all the way down. Tongue and teeth, too, until Arthur's skin is rough with goose bumps and he's arching into Eames' face as he nuzzles the dip of Arthur's spine, his breath reflecting warm and damp off Arthur's skin.

Moving again, he drops open-mouthed kisses over the graceful swell of Arthur's ass on one side, then the other. The skin is so soft, flawless and warm, and he drags his cheek over it, rough with stubble. He hadn't shaved properly that morning, hoping. Tilting his head back, he grins at the pinking skin, pride lodging heavy in his chest, unbidden.

(Eames has been wanting to taste this perfect skin for awhile, roughen it up so when Arthur sits, he has no choice but to remember: " _Eames has been here._ ")

Dipping down, Eames keeps his tongue wet and loose, tracing a line to the cleft of Arthur's ass. He breathes in the dark, heavy smell of Arthur, musky and damp, and exhales slowly; Arthur squirms at the tickle of it. Eames hears the sharp intake of breath and, anticipating Arthur's indignation, flickers his tongue deep, feather-light over Arthur's hole.

"Eames, what the hell--?!" Arthur squawks, legs shifting for leverage. He tries to get his knees up under him, but Eames is expecting that, too, and leans more heavily on his elbows, pinning Arthur's thighs in place; licks again, deeper this time, wetter, with the soft flat of his tongue.

"Oh my _god_ ," Arthur groans, deep and throaty, and his legs fall open, his entire body gone pliant with that one touch. Eames smiles and tucks in again, rubs the perineum, tongue flat, and sweeps up in one long stroke, letting the tip of his tongue catch on the rim before pulling away. Arthur is beautifully responsive, from the thick groans to the powerful clench of him.

Eames is only a little surprised to note this is not all that different from sucking Arthur off. Only better because it gets him closer to Arthur, _in_ Arthur, using more than just his fingers. And wanting that, wanting _Arthur_ so intensely, at this age should probably scare him. It would definitely make Arthur laugh. But Eames has always been a bit of a romantic. It's what his mother loves about him, and what his father hates.

Shaking his head of _those_ thoughts, Eames focuses instead on Arthur, his heat and the tiny whuffling whimpers he's making because he can't shout (and oh, if they were anywhere else but in the dormitory, Eames would make _sure_ Arthur screamed his throat raw). His hands slip under Arthur's thighs and wrap around his hips, the spurs of them a perfect fit in Eames' palms. The new grip puts Eames off-balance, though, and as he tilts back into the headboard, he pulls Arthur back and up, grinning at his surprised yelp. The new angle not only eases the stress on Eames' neck, it makes Arthur's legs open that much wider, toes tucked behind Eames' ass.

Like this, Eames can better see the tight clench of him, glistening wet and pink. Eames opens his mouth over it, wide and warm, and laves it with his tongue in broad, coaxing strokes. Each pass has Arthur opening a little more, teasing Eames with the heat of him. And then Eames stiffens his tongue, focuses the tip of it into tracing madding circles around the puckered rim, pressing in and then pulling away. Over and over again he does this, until Arthur is trembling in his arms, hips pushing impossibly up, up, up. His eagerness sends a rush of want straight to Eames' cock, the throb of it almost painful.

Resettling his hands on Arthur's sweat-slick skin, Eames starts licking in earnest, breathes little moans and growls into Arthur's skin. Over the rise of Arthur's ass, he can see Arthur's hands clenched in the sheets, his regulation tie tangled up in one fist, a silky slither of crimson against pale skin. After, when they're getting dressed again in their trousers and blazers, all tidy and straight-laced like the perfect schoolboys they're supposed to be, Arthur will chew Eames up one side and down the other for making Arthur wreck his tie. Eames bites him now in retaliation for later.

Arms aching, Eames focuses on opening Arthur up, alternating tiny licks with broader swipes. It seems, for one frustrating moment, that Arthur is determined not to share this part of himself, too rigid to relax, even if it means the best orgasm of his life (Eames may be a little bit biased, but Arthur's leaking cock is a pretty good indicator of things). But just as Eames mutters, "fucking hell, Arthur," Eames feels a slick heat, there and gone. He tries again, tongue stiff, and-- oh, _oh_.

Arthur is chanting something that sounds like Eames' name into the mattress, words slurred together, but Eames is too focused on the tight clench around his tongue, on Arthur trying to _draw him in_ , to care.

Eames pushes, tongue firm, to get in as deep as he can, as deep as Arthur will _let_ him. It isn't much, nowhere near enough, but he makes the best of it; opens his mouth wide, teeth catching on the rim, and wriggles his tongue a little. Arthur's heat is incendiary, his grip on Eames' tongue even better and, dimly, Eames can hear Arthur's choked off noises over the rush of blood in his ears, each sob skittering over his nerves to settle heavy in his groin. His balls ache from needing to come, but he can't tear his attention away from Arthur long enough to get a hand on himself.

Arthur's hips move continuously, working himself on Eames' tongue and mouth. His back is arched impossibly, toes digging into Eames' flank. Before Eames can spare a thought of trying to work a finger in alongside his tongue, he vaguely registers Arthur's telltale, "shit fucking _fuck_ ," and he tenses, shivers. The curve of his back deepens, then reverses as he comes, shivering, pulsing thick and hot over his stomach and Eames' leg and the sheets.

Eames manages to unwind his arm from around Arthur's thigh; it means abandoning Arthur's ass and Arthur toppling onto his back, twitching, but it allows Eames to touch Arthur, help work him through it. He strokes Arthur with one warm, broad hand, taking in the sight of him all flushed and sweaty, clumps of hair sticking to his forehead and temples. He looks gorgeous like this, splayed out and loose in a way he never is otherwise, his chest pink and heaving as he drags in gulps of air.

Eventually, Arthur stills, eyes closed and arms spread wide, toes tucked under Eames' thigh. Eames thumbs at the head of his cock, sticky with come, and brings it to his lips for a taste. It's then that he realizes the rough panting in the room is his own. He stretches out next to Arthur and swallows once, trying to calm his racing heart. It's no use. He skims his fingers through the mess on Arthur's stomach and uses it as lube to jerk himself off.

His cock gives a painful throb when his hand wraps around it, the skin soft and hot to the touch. He works the foreskin carefully at first, until he settles into a quick, tight rhythm. After that, it doesn't take much; a swipe of his thumb over the crown, a twist of his wrist on the random upstroke. He cries Arthur's name once, gasping, and is rewarded with hooded brown eyes locked on his. Arthur reaches out, smears one fingertip through the mess of Eames' precome and his own sweat and come, and that's it for Eames, orgasm rushing through him like a bullet train. He makes a mess of Arthur's thigh and groin, hips hitching into his hand as he comes in thick spurts.

He lays there for long, quiet moments, listening to the sound of Arthur's breathing and the rugby team in the hall, rowdy from their apparent win. A body thumps against the door, startling Eames. High-pitched laughter follows, Arthur's name called out in falsetto. Eames frowns, his left hand curling into a fist, and watches for Arthur's reaction. He's ridiculously pleased when there isn't one.

Instead, Arthur turns onto his side to face Eames, eyes closed, and pillows his head on his arm. His hand rests, open and loose, just above Eames' head, fingers brushing through the tips of Eames' hair. Eames stretches out a little further, greedy for the steady pressure of fingertips on his scalp. Each gentle scrape of fingernails sends a delicious wave of shivers down his spine.

He has to break the silence eventually, the clock on the desk behind Arthur spoiling Eames' rare afterglow. "Arthur," he sing-songs, voice low, intimate. The hand on his head stills for one disappointing moment, spurring Eames to worm closer to Arthur. Close enough to feel his heat, but not so that they're touching. That's Arthur's rule.

At least his hand resumes its petting.

Eames counts to thirty before Arthur hums a reply, eyes staunchly closed. Eames curses the approaching dinner hour for how it will spoil this moment, make Arthur turn back into his prim, buttoned-up self before Eames is ready to let him.

"How'd you like it?" Eames asks, shy. The corner of his mouth slants down in a frown Arthur does't see.

Arthur sighs, eyes blinking open against the harsh fluorescent light. "It was...okay." He keeps his face blank, mouth a tight, thin line. The fingers in Eames' hair keep moving, though; switching from long drags to drawing tiny spirals. Eames can only imagine how wild his hair must look.

He studies Arthur's face, waiting for him to break. When he doesn't, Eames shoves at his hip and says, "Bloody tosser. You fucking loved it."

"Maybe I did," Arthur replies, one shoulder shifting in an approximation of a shrug. At Eames' wide grin, Arthur's eyes sharpen. "Do not even think about asking me to do that to you." The dip of his eyebrows is fierce, but there's a flicker in his cheek, the hint of a dimple that makes Eames' fingers itch to trace it.

His smile softens and he cards his fingers through Arthur's sweat-damp curls. "Wouldn't dream of it, love." He stresses the last word, just a little, and laughs as he ducks Arthur's half-hearted punch.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this prompt](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/239684.html?thread=17659460#t17659460) from cherrybina's [Inception Kink Fest 2.0](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/239684.html). The second I saw the picture, I thought "boarding school boys." Upon further inspection, that isn't _really_ a boarding school setting, but I went with it anyway! Hope Arthur was jailbait enough for the prompter. I can't seem to write sex with someone younger than 16. Deepest apologies :(


End file.
